


Vhenatus

by KayGryph



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayGryph/pseuds/KayGryph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots and ficlets following the story of my OC Inquisitor, Thalon Lavellan, and the man he loves, Dorian Pavus. (Get it...'cus...<i>vhenan</i> and <i>amatus</i>. Aren't I clever.) There's no plot thread to connect these mini-stories, but they do take place in the same "headcanon universe" as my ongoing Lavellan/Dorian fanfic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4376552/chapters/9933947">"The Sky Grew Black."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Here Now, Amatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this masochistic oneshot to appease my insatiable excitement over the release of Trespasser. Please note that this was written PRE-Trespasser, when our only point of reference for the DLC was the official trailer, so this onshot is _not_ consistent with Trespasser canon. I will probably write a canon version at some later date, but I figured I might as well put this up in the meantime, because I rather like how it turned out. Inspired by [this absolutely gut-wrenching drawing of Dorian and Lavellan](http://siriusdraws.tumblr.com/post/128340265245/the-only-thing-i-really-want-from-the-trespasser) by [siriusdraws](http://siriusdraws.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

Thalon stalked from the council chamber and didn’t look back, not even when--over the swell of outraged voices--he heard Divine Victoria call out his name. He could hear Josephine behind him at her most diplomatic, fighting to be heard over the clamor: “His Worship has journeyed a great distance upon short notice to sit before the Exalted Council, without regard for his own personal comfort, Your Majesty. You must forgive him a moment’s…indiscretion.”

 _Indiscretion_. Thalon could have gagged on the disgust that rose to his gorge. He was sick to death of politicians and their politicians’ words. Thalon had made Gaspard what he was, what Orlais had _needed_ him to be in a moment of crisis, but all that was conveniently forgotten now that the threat of the Breach was a fading memory, for them. The mark on his left hand flared with his rising anger, a bright burst of pain that took his breath away. He staggered, stifling a low gasp, but caught himself against the pillared archway and dragged himself forward.

“Inquisitor.” Thalon didn’t trust himself to turn around, so he marched rigidly through the foyer and into the antechamber where his advisors had established a makeshift war table to talk strategy for the council none of them had wanted to attend. Leliana’s boots rang on the painted tile floors of the Winter Palace with each quick step. “ _Thalon_.”

Thalon whirled, his face drawn and coated in a light sheen of sweat. “What is it you want from me? An apology? To admit I’ve made a fool of myself and the Inquisition? That I ought to have listened when you urged me not to agree to this _BLOODY_  council in the first place?” The guards at the door to the antechamber shifted uncomfortably, and even Leliana seemed taken aback by the snarl in his voice before her usual composure slid effortlessly back into place.

“What I _want_ is for you to collect yourself,” she replied calmly. “Josie will cover for you this time, but you cannot lose yourself every time one of them offers an insult on a gilded platter. That is their Game, and you are playing right into their hands.”

“For once, I agree with our Spymaster.” Cullen had followed Leliana into the chamber with Scout Harding at his heels. Thalon felt the Commander’s eyes on him as he paced, agitated, in front of the war table. “Much as I dislike them, we need these nobles to support our cause, or we may soon find ourselves the enemy here.”

Thalon could barely think with them talking at him, nonsense words about nobles and enemies and _games_ \--as if they weren’t talking about people’s _lives_. He’d had enough of words and games for a hundred lifetimes, but here they were out of the mouths of his own advisors. Never had he felt such a keen reminder of how far he was from home, where words had been for teaching his sister how to protect herself from spirits in the Fade and lulling his infant brother to sleep with tales out of Dalish legend, not shaping the futures of nations.  _What was he doing here?_  Thalon braced himself on the war table with both hands as the room seemed to spin sickly around him.

“…Inquisitor?” Cullen prompted. 

“ _Damnit!_ ” Thalon swung his arm across the table, sending maps and tomes and scouting reports crashing to the floor. The Anchor burned with an unearthly green flame that threw his haggard profile into relief against the wall. “We save Fereldan, and they’re angry. We save Orlais, and _they’re_ angry. We close the Breach, _twice_ , and my own hand wants to kill me.” The Inquisitor’s face contorted as another flare of the mark sent white knives of pain through his arm and shoulder. “Agghh! Could _one_ thing in this _FUCKING_ world just stay fixed?”

Thalon shouldered past Cullen and slammed the door to his private quarters behind him. He half expected Leliana or Cullen to enter after him, but all he heard through the door was a brief muffled exchange and the echo of their retreating footsteps. Somehow the fact that neither of them had spoken against him made him feel even worse. Thalon sank onto the grotesquely lavish bed and dropped his head into his hands. After four days and nights on the road from Skyhold to Halamshiral, exhaustion had caught up with him at last. His left arm shook with pain, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

Thalon tugged the leather glove off his left hand and stared down at the mark that pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat. Was it his imagination that the mark seemed to have spread since that morning? Veins of poisonous green traced under his skin from palm to elbow, as though the mark had even corrupted his blood. How many lords and kings, how many of his own soldiers saw the mark he bore and thought it was their salvation-–some divine blessing, the holy providence of their Maker? If the mark had been any of those things, though, why would it be trying to kill him?

Thalon cradled his left arm against his side and drew his legs onto the bed to sit crosslegged. His eyes slid shut and with effort he drew his mind away from the pain and to thoughts of home and comfort. The laughter of his sister and his two brothers when they danced with the halla foals in spring. Moss damp and earthy under his bare toes as he tread a forest of pale trees cloaked in golden foliage. The whisper of ancient words whose meanings had been lost to memory. Caramel skin goosefleshed and muscled beneath his fingertips, strong hands locked around his hips…

The mark throbbed angrily and pain shuddered through his arm to the shoulder and into his jaw. Thalon gasped and gripped the hand to his chest. “ _F-Fen’Harel ver _’_ em_…”

There was a knock at the door, and Thalon screwed his eyes shut against the swell of anger that rose like bile in his throat. “Leave! I’m not to be disturbed!” The door opened. Thalon opened his mouth to utter some apropos _indiscretion_ when his gaze met golden eyes, and the Inquisitor’s heart leapt into his throat. He was…different…and yet exactly the same. He’d grown older in two years; there were lines at his eyes and mouth now where there had been none. Dark, mussed hair had grown long enough to be bound in a ponytail at the back of his skull, and golden jewelry glinted from ears and fingers like pale beacons against his smooth dark skin. Yet the posture, the slight tilt of the mouth, the leather taut over his perfectly made body…those had not changed. Could never change. They were all that made him the man Thalon loved.

“Confound your bloody southern weather,” Dorian griped, but the shimmer behind his carefully averted eyes betrayed him. “Do you know I haven’t an inch of dry skin anywhere on my body? I’m wet in places I didn’t even realize I _had_.”

Thalon didn’t remember leaving his bed or crossing the room, but he found himself suddenly and inexplicable wound in Dorian’s arms as their mouths found one another. He tasted of northern spice and incense and heady musk, exactly what Thalon remembered. He made a soft noise halfway between a moan and a choked cry of pain, and Dorian pulled away.

“It’s worse,” Dorian murmured. “You promised me it wasn’t going to _get_ worse, remember?”

“I look worse than I feel,” Thalon insisted, but he must have looked pale and exhausted. Dorian was unconvinced.

“If you looked any worse, I’d be asking Cullen to explain why the Inquisition has a corpse in place of an Inquisitor,” Dorian retorted, but his honey-brown eyes were dark with worry as they searched his face. He took Thalon’s arm in his practiced hands, and with the pad of his thumb massaged Thalon’s wrist between the two tendons there, focusing his magic through the pressure point. Thalon shut his eyes against the pain and tried to breathe through the wave of nausea that washed over him.

“I…I feel rather lightheaded,” he managed before his knees gave out and Dorian guided him to the floor with steady arms.

“ _Amatus_ …” Even through the haze of pain, Thalon heard the tight emotion in Dorian’s voice. “Tell me what I need to do. Tell me what you feel. Anything.”

“Knives…caught under the skin and set aflame,” Thalon choked. He tucked himself against the curve of Dorian’s chest, the fingers of his right hand balled helplessly in the collar of Dorian’s cloak as he clutched his left rigidly to his body. His words were a ragged plea: "Gods, Dorian, it hurts..." Another spike of pain made him retreat further inside himself, and he bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood. Thalon buried his face in the soft curve of Dorian’s neck and weakly whispered, “Where have you been?”

Dorian’s arms closed around him, hand cupping his cheek as warm lips pressed a kiss to Thalon’s temple. “Does it matter? I’m here now, _amatus_. And I'm not leaving you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fen’Harel ver'em** \- “Dread Wolf take me,” similar to English “fuck me” when used to express pain or inconvenience. Translation adapted from [the Elvhen Lexicon created by fenxshiral](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848/chapters/8237548).


	2. Champagne Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Thalon/Dorian oneshot at the Winter Palace. Inspired by [this OTP meme](http://my-lovely-little-micool.tumblr.com/post/126477172556/imagine-your-otp) by [my-lovely-little-micool](http://my-lovely-little-micool.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. I know technically Dorian’s romance doesn’t start in the game until after Halamshiral...but I don’t care. xD

“…naive to suggest the so-called  _Mage Rebellion_ was anything more than a poorly calculated political gambit by the Grand-Enchanter,” drawled the Marquis d’Arlesans. “If you’re asking  _my_ opinion, I say the Inquisition ought to execute Fiona for treason. Mark my words, Inquisitor, she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Yes, well…” Thalon cleared his throat with what he hoped was the proper degree of lofty indifference. “We’ll certainly take that under consideration, Your Grace.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Marquis said. “I don’t know if you’ve been told but–oh, Inquisitor,  _pardon._  I believe my cousin the Comtesse de Val Foret has taken note of us…”

Thalon seized his chance at once. “In that case I won’t detain you any longer, Your Grace. I’m sure you have many more people to entertain this evening.” He bowed before the Marquis could attempt to entrap him again and moved off quickly through the crowd, seeking either a quiet corner to take refuge or a balcony off which to hurl himself.

_Dread Wolf take me will this night ever end?_ He tugged at the stiff collar of his dress uniform, which had begun to chafe an hour ago. The formal military attire Josephine had insisted he wear was so unlike anything he was accustomed to that he felt almost suffocated…but it would not do for the Orlesian court to believe that the Inquisitor – an _elf savage_ – could not attend a masquerade in dress befitting his title.

“M’lord Inquisitor?”

He turned to find an elven servant with timid doe’s eyes that reminded him painfully of his sister and blond hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. She ducked her head and curtsied, and offered him a flute of pale gold champagne. Thalon accepted the glass and opened his mouth to thank her, but she had already scurried away with eyes downcast.

Thalon gripped the stem of the champagne glass and schooled his expression into one of neutral disinterest. It festered and  _itched_ under his skin to see the way these nobles fawned and flattered to ingratiate themselves with the elven Lord Inquisitor, yet failed to see that the elves serving hors d’oeuvres and aperitifs at their elbows even existed. It only added insult to injury that they stood in a gilded palace built upon the ashes of the second elven homeland.

“What’s this – the Lord Inquisitor not enjoying himself?”

A rueful smile tugged at the corner of Thalon’s mouth. He turned with squared shoulders and drew himself to his full height. “Nonsense. What’s not to enjoy in such a grotesque spectacle of wealth and narcissism?”

“Hah! You ought to see the soirees they throw in Minrathous. The wine’s better, but the smell of fresh blood rather spoils the taste.” Mischief sparkled in Dorian’s eyes as he sauntered closer – and a spark of unmistakable hunger. “Has anyone ever told you the military look suits you, Inquisitor?”

“Since I’ve never had a reason to wear a uniform before, no, I can’t say that they have.” Thalon swirled the champagne in his glass and raised it to his lips with a coy quirk of one eyebrow. A warm sensation that had nothing to do with the alcohol spread through his chest as Dorian’s eyes roamed shamelessly over the trimly tailored fabric and the sash wound tightly about his slender hips. The Tevinter shook his head in amazement.

“You are seduction incarnate,  _amatus_.” Dorian sidled closer, near enough to whisper, and Thalon took in the heady scent of exotic perfume that clung to his dark skin. “If not for the delicious  _scandal_ it would cause, I’d let you bend me over the dessert table and fuck me, hard,  _right here_.”

Thalon choked and spluttered as a swallow of champagne went straight down the wrong pipe. He coughed, face and ears burning a brilliant shade of crimson, keenly aware of the stares as every mask within ten paces of them turned to watch the Inquisitor choke on a lungful of champagne. Dorian, to his credit, valiantly  _attempted_ to keep a straight face…but failed.

“Goodness,” Dorian chortled, clucking his tongue. “If I’d known you’d be so easy to flatter, Inquisitor, I wouldn’t have said a word…” The man had the audacity to  _wink_ and took Thalon’s champagne glass from his hand to partake of a swallow. “I believe I see Josephine headed in our direction, no doubt to scold you for such a display, so I’ll leave you to your own devices…but save a dance for me later.”

By the time Thalon regained himself, Dorian had already moved off into the crowd with all the effortless ease of a practiced socialite. Before he had disappeared, he spared one last glance over his shoulder – golden eyes dark not with lust, but with a fondness and warmth that Thalon had never seen there before. The Inquisitor’s breath hitched in his chest, and this time it had nothing to do with any champagne.

“Inquisitor.” Josephine materialized beside him wearing the same pinched expression Keeper Istimaethoriel had often affected when he’d shirked his duties as a child. “Is everything…under control?”

Thalon tore his eyes from the spot where Dorian had disappeared and turned to her with a look of feigned indignity. “He took my glass.”

Bastard.


	3. Frozen in Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless fluff drabble. Written at the request of one of my Tumblr followers, inspired by [this adorable Twine](http://ourinquisitorialness.tumblr.com/post/134714982440/ruffle-shuffle-vcook10-weloveshortvideos).

Thalon shivered. Cold air traced like chill fingers along his spine and over goosefleshed skin, pushing him from the warm oblivion of sleep.

One bloodshot eye cracked open, then the other. The room was dark and freezing cold. Myrra must have forgotten to stoke the hearth again. Josie had tried to reassign the girl, twice, but Thalon refused. He was uncomfortable enough with the idea of a servant to wait on him and draw his baths and deliver his meals. He wasn’t going to dismiss the girl for letting the fire go out a few times.

Thalon twitched his fingers, sleepily tugging at the Veil until orange flames sprang to life among the embers. He sighed as heat began to fill the room and pressed himself deeper into the furs. He prayed sleep would take him quickly, but the Mark had begun to throb and the cold that had seeped into his bones made him stiff and aching all over.

He rolled onto his back and scrubbed his face, exhausted. It had to be hours before dawn. Pale shafts of moonlight filtered through the stained glass to pool on the bed beside him…where Dorian lay beneath the heap of furs he’d stolen, snoring softly into the pillow.

Warmth that had nothing to do with the fire in the hearth spread slow tendrils through Thalon’s chest, as his eyes drank in his lover’s sleep-softened features. It never failed to stagger him how handsome the younger man was, how perfectly made, but he was never more beautiful than like this – the muscles in his cheeks relaxed, brow lines smoothed away, the pretentious curve gone from his mouth. He seemed… _vulnerable_. Mortal.  _Real_. In these moments, frozen in moonlight, it was possible to believe that a man like Dorian Pavus who held himself above the world could actually  _want_ him.

Actually  _love_ him.

Thalon shifted to roll closer under the blankets and buried his face in the soft curve of Dorian’s neck. He breathed in the intoxicating scent of the man – spice and incense and musk. Dorian mumbled an incoherent word between broken snores. Without waking, he curled an arm around Thalon’s waist to draw him into the warm hollow of Dorian’s chest, and there at last, where he was meant to be, Thalon let sleep take him.

His last blurred thought before he sank into the blissful deep dark was of the name he’d once feared he’d never speak in his heart again, word and meaning made one truth as it whispered through him:

_Vhenan._


End file.
